


we never really spoke to be honest

by shaekspeares



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Communication, Except unlike IRL Zayn does know a Harry and Harry is forced to acknowledge a Zayn, Fate, M/M, Not angst and not happy, One Shot, Post-Canon, Undated, What you'd expect from a Zarry fic really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-29
Packaged: 2019-03-11 03:33:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13515762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shaekspeares/pseuds/shaekspeares
Summary: Zayn walks himself towards Harry's LA house, and things get strange.





	we never really spoke to be honest

**Author's Note:**

> back on my bullshit!

Honestly? He doesn’t know how he got there. He’s fresh out of the studio, and it’s not like he has any excuse for driving through that part of L. A., or for asking his Uber driver to drop him off on the corner of that street, or for the slow stroll down a road he shouldn’t be walking down that ensues.

 

It’s always been a little bit of a pressure point, Los Angeles. Like, neither of them really have claim over it, because it’s a city, but it’s been duly associated with both of them time and time again, and it always kind of feels like there’s some kind of passive aggressive power struggle over it.

 

Everything they do could technically qualify as a passive aggressive power struggle. He prefers not to take notice of that.

 

Nevertheless, it’s not like he’s drunk or even high or particularly emotionally worked up, so it really is without any excuse that he does it, especially because, while he’s walking down, he’s literally telling himself that this is stupid. It does nothing. It’s like he’s accidentally flipped a switch that absolutely refuses to listen to reason.

 

It’s not like it’s going to kill him, but it’ll unnecessarily force him through at best an awkward paparazzi pic and at worst some kind of strained confrontation. He has no idea why his feet are still taking him forwards.

 

Lower Doheny is a trendy, relatively indie neighbourhood of Hollywood, so Harry must fit right in. Zayn actually doesn’t follow his doings obsessively, but he heard about this particular deal, he thinks- something like eight mil on the house, for sale since some point in 2017. Given it’s on sale, he wouldn’t’ve reckoned Harry’d be at home, only he knows he’s in town, and since the place is still his it wouldn’t be a stretch to head home.

 

In any case, the gating around the place is intimidating. Zayn’s always been frustrated by celebrity gating- it’s absolutely necessary, because people will scale your walls to get into your space, but it’s also the most fucking obvious sign of celebrity presence in the area. What kind of prick puts up huge, ugly CCTV gating around his house unless he has something to hide away, you know?

 

Well, he’s here, now.

 

He stops, shoves his hands in his pockets, exhales a clouded breath. Even LA gets cold when Thanksgiving rolls around. The Americans are huge on Thanksgiving- Gigi kind of hinted he should come to hers, but he’s not in the mood for socializing, right now. He wants this album finished in maybe a week or two- before Christmas season really kicks in, in any case- and it needs that final ounce of concentration. So he’s spent most of his time cooped up in the studio- he doesn’t mind it.

 

So far, he’s been cautiously optimistic. Dusk till Dawn did well, which was unsurprising, given SIA’s ace, and he knows for a fact his and Nicki’s track will be called a bop, because it’s Nicki. In general, Z2 is a lot more experimental than Mind of Mine, but he’s not particularly stressed over it, not yet. Doesn’t matter how well it does, in the end; he likes it.

 

Harry’s album and Sign of the Times did nowhere as well as Mind of Mine and Pillowtalk, a sly voice informs him. He shakes his head. So Harry wasn’t as mainstream successful, whatever. The critics ate it up, and he did Dunkirk, for God’s sake. Zayn loved Dunkirk, loves Nolan in general, and even if his appreciation of the role was layered with bias, he knows Harry was good. It’s not a competition.

 

(It is. But the playing field is never equal.)

 

It works to his advantage, that he’s so lost in thought, as it often does, in making people think he’s aloof and reserved when he’s actually withdrawn into his own social anxiety. In this particular instance, it saves him from looking like a deer caught in the headlights when Harry’s gate whirs open and Harry casually ambles out.

 

Harry looks aimlessly across the street and pauses, so startled he loses his cover and actually drops a “Zayn?” out loud.

 

Shit. He thinks the last time they met face to face was 2015.

 

“Hi.”

 

For fuck’s sake. Hi.

 

“Wh- what are you doing here?” Harry asks, face still flitting between a thousand emotions, as his gate slowly closes on him, leaving them standing on opposite sides of the street, mirroring each other. Zayn can’t blame him- he’d probably have dropped something if Harry appeared outside his flat.

 

He doesn’t know what to answer, pulls at his lip reflexively. What is he doing here? He has no idea. He genuinely has no fucking idea. Maybe he should tell him that.

 

“I… don’t know.”

 

Harry opens and closes his mouth, finally seems to get a grip. “Are you drunk?”

 

“Stone-cold sober,” Zayn replies, with half an eyeroll that he knows he doesn’t have the right to when he’s just broken about twenty unspoken rules. “I seriously don’t have ulterior motives.”

 

Harry’s face is shut off, and he’s examining Zayn like he doesn’t know if he should even bother being polite. Zayn feels strangely removed about it all, and doesn’t know why. He seriously needs to have a talk with a therapist, in the next week. Clearly the album pressure has done a number on him.

 

“…How long are you planning on standing outside my house for?”

 

“Technically I’m across the street,” Zayn points out, to which Harry’s expression sours. Fair, once more. What the fuck is he doing?

  
“I don’t- should I call the police? Is this going to last?”

 

“I wasn’t planning on staying around that long.”

 

Harry stares at him again. “…So, can I leave and expect you to be gone by the time I come back, or…”

 

“Uh, probably.”

 

Harry looks like he really needs a drink, or a vegan milkshake or whatever the hell he drinks, but he kind of slowly nods and begins to walk off, one step at a time, with these backwards looks towards Zayn like he thinks he’s going to do something once his back is turned.

 

Zayn’s eyes wander back to the building. Wonders what it looks like inside. It’d be quite funny if he ended up buying the place, like.

 

Harry suddenly reappears in his line of sight, running a hand through his hair nervously. Zayn notices he's lost the ugly attempt at a beard he'd been growing.

 

“No, all right. I can’t just have you standing outside my house like this. You’ve got to go.”

 

“But I’m not really outside your house,” Zayn argues, weakly. “And I’m not doing anything.”

 

You know what I mean, Harry’s face says, and Zayn actually does, because it’s more him being there than anything else that doesn’t fit into this scenario, but he’s got nothing to offer. He honestly doesn’t have any plans or reasoning, and it’s not even that he had some irresistible urge to see Harry, apparently, because Harry’s right there and it’s not him Zayn is stalking after.

 

“I have no idea what I’m doing here either,” Zayn feels compelled to admit, because he’s starting to feel a little bit bad for Harry and also because the sane part of his brain seems to be kicking into action the longer Harry fixes him in disbelief. “Really. I think it’s album nerves. I didn't come to see you.”

 

Harry sighs this really long, honestly overdramatic sigh, and Zayn has no idea where people get that tranquil gentleman idea about him from because Harry is like, extremely edgy, and then seems like he wants to say something until he clamps his mouth shut. Zayn figures he owes him an expectant silence, at this point.

 

“Would you like,” Harry manages, with extreme difficulty, “To come inside.”

 

It’s Zayn’s turn to stare at him like he’s grown two heads (or more nipples), but Harry stubbornly refuses to back down, doing the polite thing now, and Zayn honestly has nothing to say. He never intended to see Harry again, let alone show up to his house; this scenario’s not one he planned for.

 

“You fucking about?”

 

“No, you’re making me extremely uncomfortable and I’d rather you come in than stay here,” Harry says, rapidly, and sets his shoulders. Zayn kind of fights back a retort, out of habit, and finds his stupid head nodding along reluctantly as an okay forms on his lips, which makes Harry’s expression morph again.

 

“Well- well, come on, then.”

 

Harry sets off towards his house, and Zayn’s traitor legs follow his long strides with extreme disbelief. What the fuck? This is the worst idea either of them has had in years. They haven’t spoken in two years, and the year before that was filled with increasing mutual dislike and tension within the group. Which makes it, what, three years since they were friends? Now, they’re more like… uncomfortable and unfriendly ex-bandmates with a troubled history and a mutual consensus to never interact but not to stir trouble with each other in public.

 

What are they going to do, small talk? There’s the tell-tale bite of anxiety somewhere in his throat, and he’s going to murder himself after he gets through this- what possessed him to come here? And why did Harry have to be in?

 

The house is huge, modern, and uncomfortably empty. Harry catches him looking, purses his lips almost defensively.

 

“There’s not much left. I didn’t think I’d be coming back.”

 

“Why’re you here, actually?” Zayn asks, frowning at the empty walls before he realizes he’s spoken out loud yet again, and he seriously needs mental help at this stage.

 

“I felt like being in America for autumn,” Harry answers, easily enough, and heads into another room as Zayn pauses awkwardly to kick off his shoes. The house is seriously barren- he can’t imagine anyone living in it, especially not Harry Styles.

 

He’s about to slowly lurk around to make sure he doesn’t head somewhere he’s not meant to be when he realizes he can smell spices cooking and heads in the direction of it, which leads him to the only live room in the building. If the whole rest of the house is 1950s asylum levels of bland, the kitchen is bursting with life; plates scattered with various culinary attempts, a speaker pressed against the counter, books cluttering the counter and something orange-tinted he can’t place sizzling in the oven.

 

Harry’s staring into the void unseeingly as he walks in, so he kind of slowly pulls a chair out to signal his presence, eyes lowering to the nearest book. It’s in French, Madame Bovary. Does Harry speak French now? He didn’t know. His eyes skim over the words, but he doesn’t understand more than a handful of words per paragraph, so it’s of no use.

 

“D’you want something to drink?” Harry asks, eventually, probably snapping out of whatever he was thinking. Most likely how much longer until this psychopath clears out of my house jesus. Zayn winces.

 

“Uh, water’d be great.”

 

“I was going to boil the kettle,” Harry says, making him backtrack immediately.

 

“I’d take tea, too. Or coffee. S’all good.”

 

There’s a moment of awkward, stilted silence before Harry seems to mentally chastise himself and turn to a tea box, and Zayn squints at the oven, trying to see.

 

“Earl Grey, Redbush, Jubilee Mix?”

 

“Whatever you’re having’s fine, man.”

 

Harry bites his lip, turns away to watch the kettle. Zayn’s fingers are itching to drum against his leg, but he knows it’d both betray his nerves and annoy Harry. Harry’s the type who suddenly finds everything you do annoying, once you’ve lost his favour.

 

"Funny that you're here," Harry says, back still turned as he pours the tea. "Seeing we never really spoke and all."

 

Zayn closes his eyes and counts to ten. 

 

"Funny you let me in, considering the paperwork."

 

Neither of them looks at each other, and he sort of wishes Harry would suddenly lunge at him and try to beat him up, because Zayn would definitely kick his ass and it would be oh so satisfying. 

 

Outside, someone's dog barks. Harry sets the teacup down on the counter and moves on to the next. He's never seen someone pour tea so bitterly.

 

Still, he supposes he is in Harry's house and not vice versa. That puts things against him. He doesn't like owing him anything.

 

It’s becoming a pattern that he has no idea what’s pushing him to do things, but this time Zayn feels the idea shaping itself before he acts on it. It makes his anxiety climb, but some part of him pushes it nonetheless.

 

“I saw Dunkirk twice, in cinemas.”

 

Harry looks up like he’s heard him wrong, but whatever he finds in Zayn’s defensive expression must correct his intuition. He knows it’s risky territory, the movie- definitely Harry’s, not neutral grounds, even if it’s a Nolan.

 

“Yeah?” He hesitates, like he wants to leave it there but can't resist pushing it. “Like it that much?”

 

“Not exactly,” Zayn manages, fingers tapping away. “It’s the sort of movie you need to see twice, know what I mean. For the landscape to settle, and the stories to kick in.”

 

“Yeah,” Harry repeats, rather differently. “I know what you mean.”

 

“You know nothing about the characters other than the struggle to get out of there,” Zayn continues, forgetting where he is because it’s easier that way. “And it still works, like. You’re there too.”

 

Harry sets down a cup of tea in front of him, and Zayn mumbles his thanks, uneasy at the proximity. He has the feeling if he looks up they’ll be caught in a staring contest.

 

“Why’re you here?” Harry asks, eventually, and Zayn doesn’t know what question he’s repeating, now, struggles for an answer that covers most bases. Harry's eyes are on him, and Zayn feels, for the first time in a while, that if he turned he would find himself seeing something familiar, actually, despite it all, an unchanged green.

 

Shit, why is he here? He doesn't know. He really doesn't know.

 

“I didn’t feel like people.”

 

He knows what the smell in the oven is, now. Sweet potatoes. His cousin makes them with cinnamon, too.

 

There’s a long silence again, and Zayn closes his eyes and sniffs at his tea and wonders when he’ll wake up.

 

“Look,” Harry says, “Do you want to stay for dinner?”


End file.
